Long Swilling Poems
Long Swilling Poems. Below are the most popular long Swilling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Swilling poems by poem length and keyword.
Last call for alcohol, embargo
on the cargo headed for Fargo?
Bootlegging articles of?
"ConfederationNow",
Boot logger, droned Over all? Foggered... Froggers, sprawled. Farms attacked by competing vows. ++
Blood drained Cows.
Imagine, Gaia hype- our brainwashing, a
sacrifice to a Paul Bunyan Nephilim type, "Savior" moonshining wormwood tea in exchange for Sheep. Believing them to be. Stoned blind in Texas, right wing.
Liquid Media medicinals, points for eveyone West of, Diagonal the Allegheny, best of show, suggestion,
allegiant, allegory. (Oh...allegedly.)
As The King of the North fights zombies that believe the Game of Thrones just fantasy. Conspiracy_ Storytellers of propagandolf, minds of Sauron to keep
eyes Wide-Shut. By Aristocracy.
To "pass" on the proof of those stoned blind in Texas, shekeled, bought, brought a Rose, of Sharon,
from Ticked Karen's, in their own Eden.
Those non-Citizens,
"Christians of the un-Enlightened" l"unacy of Old',
thoughts? NoahmadicHeathens!
Of the tide turning; going South.
The dark side of the moon,
a journey scape of wet dreams in swoon.
To partake the half empty side of drink.
Salt of thirsts.
Cup of wrath of the Directional Winds.
A piracy bloodbath of Nationhood in martyred demarcation zones.
Cusp of swilling blood of the swill,
Apocalyptic feel, fills,
notes of the unveiling of the Whore who Rides the Beast on the Seven Seas. Leviathan is leavened,
rising, ready to eat.
Now, there is censorship on speech on the internet,
then is, when, is then en-Tyrely.
The Gatekeepers at Fallens keep,
keeping freedom, voices "Crying in the Wilderness"',
Peeps out of reach.
Accept for Government (entities) with algorithms, keyloggers, identity id thieves, imagers of the Beast.
Spell binders binding
their articles-of-New-World-Sourcery-Cheaping-Rumpelstiltskin-Seamstitchery-Tailoring-Truth- blinding-digital-mining-slaves for the Wolves,
Kings of the East, Trading Company.
Trading souls for an hour with the Beast.
Its the breathing of relax ! which mingle mixes beneath the roof of tamping rain drops, beyond the road salt stained glass, i know ! Its cold, of passing wheels, at early o'clock and the spitting, in crimson, spiralling, crackling music of the metamorphosis into charcoal of long past,chopped very dry logs; early o'clock cloaks me in the revolving whir of the fridge, i cannot hear the spiders feet! although he has eight scurrying in the scullery, or the plop of the tea bag and the bubbling of hot, dropping swilling and brown.
It is the gentle of Bozz and Betti snoring and my goose bumped arms scaffolding a heavy head and drooping eye lids, ah,comfort arrives in many clothes sizes and times.
But, this comfort slips from key white to key black, the dripping morning of disappointed tunes and stamping feet, blurs under the flap of the breezing yawn of letterbox joy, just a jumble of jigsawed letters missing from an eternal alphabet, i am not liking this day, to evening and death.
Savvy scientists scoff at the soul:
Can't poke it, prod it, pinch it, probe it
~ and clearly can't claim to contemplate...
an empirical, egg-headed, experimental
all-enveloping ecstasy of erudite exactitude
elegantly and eloquently embossed, embedded
~ in its entropy of effervescing exegesis.
Whereas
I know of no one -- nowhere -- nasty or normal
knock-kneed, neck-naped, nose-gnarled
neuron-nitpicked or nucleic-acid-nested
Who
denies indubitably or dubiously, definitely
or deafeningly--deranged, demented,
debauched or denatured -- the sacred
sanctuary unsullied, where sits, serene and
silent, the small, still sound of said soul
swilling, swelling, seeking, sailing, soaring---
sensitively, sensorily, yea sentimentally---
til he sees, then sighs, then seizes
so surreptitiously the serum of sentience
Within!
Entry in "An Inner Knowing, an Absolute Feeling, My Mystical Soul
Self Poetry Contest," sponsored by Caren Krutsinger
I remember as a little girl
On a visit to an aunt’s friends house
I was sitting reading a story book
As quiet as a mouse
I asked to be pardoned
To go to the loo
They were all playing dominoes
So I knew what I must do
I opened up the door
And placed my foot on the first stair
Then I heard someone in a low voice say
“Are you sure that she's all there”?
I felt a tear run down my cheek
I was doing what I ought
Only speaking when I was spoken to
That's what I was taught
When I’d done what I had to do
I went back down the stairs
The domino game was finished
And there were four empty chairs
They were all in the kitchen
Drinking cups of tea
My aunt she turned to me and smiled
And handed a cup to me
She noticed my tear-stained face
And stroked it with her hand
I told her what I’d overheard
She said I was too young to understand
I was insecure throughout my childhood
Never felt like I fitted in
Undernourished because I wouldn't eat
Now I’d just be classed as thin
From the age of five
My time at school was fleeting
Feigning illness to avoid the bullies
And escape another beating
I remember cowering
In the corner of the school yard
Cigarette butts stubbed out on my arms
Left painful, sore and charred
Name-calling and violence
Made me feel inferior
Set upon by bullies
Who thought they were superior
When I became a teenager
Things they got much worse
The bullies were now older
Younger ones they would coerce
To taunt me and lie in wait
And leave me in a battered state
When i got my first job
The bullying it went on
Because my face didn't fit
I was put upon
Got lumbered with the dirty jobs
That no-one else would do
Like swilling down the filthy yard
And scrubbing the outside loo
One afternoon, the manageress
Secretly asked me whether
I would do sexual favours for a delivery man
And I reached the end of my tether
I got my coat and quit the job
Never looking back
I later heard that the manageress
Was found out and got the sack
Now that I am older
No-ones victim will I be
I stand my ground, nobody’s fool
And i am happy being me
In the jaundiced light of the pock-marked moon,
Nevada nights many strange visions have seen
But few match spring time rapidly rutting rabbits
Racing and romping in moonlight madness;
Frolicking free in a sagebrush sea
Amidst white-crested mountain waves;
While whirlwinds swirl and in playas play
One hundred and forty fathoms deeper
Than luna-limned beach strands of dry lake shores.
Bobcats lurk in the moonbeam shadowed deeps,
Eager to feast on the bounding banquet
Of loco late-night leaping lepuses.
Madling moonshine swilling drivers pop a
Fair share of raw rabbits upon their grills
As coyotes yowl over missed moonglow kills.
… is a drunkard
Swilling vintage regret,
Tears falling for undared dreams,
Anger spewing over unrequited love.
… is endless replays of yesterdays
With circular insightful wisdom
As likely to reverse life’s ills
As scrubbing dirt off hills.
… is stolen joy in the gloom
Of memory’s moldy greenhouse
Where fancied success blooms, hiding
Mocking hyenas and nightmare roaches.
… is a pustulated soul
Hunkering in a mental bunker
Sniveling nose dripping a green past,
Dreaming victory will roar as thunder.
… is Salvador Dali droop
From the fringes of reality
Or a joy until truth
Flushes it to a cesspool.
I begin,
with spearmint breath, barefoot, and hushed skin
woken are earth’s aromas of prayer and namaskar
spilling intentions auspicious a focused vow within,
with a promising salutation to the resending rising star
for the faded filaments of ashy ailments, as well
I hear their praises of open routes and yellow brick roads,
fast tracks to filigree of fulfillments where egos swell
gritty goals, lickety-split in their surrealistic abodes
its competition stirs the soul, yet their ebbing eyes be blind
to suit oneself and not the self, the soul-search sold,
to stay true becomes onerous of an untruth abstract mind
The scribbler’s hastened house upholds,
phasing flowers into a creative expression explored,
literary archaic yet no soul from muse’s molds
some choose to pull from brutal banks previously implored
A game of Scribbage, the deal, the play, the show,
noted nothing less nor nothing more,
vintage vantage, a cribbage of blank blurt we all know
forgetful is the fact that we’re all amateurs
Take my savory words you, I’ll take yours if kind,
let go the ways to wicked wharfs, it’s the way to putrefy
away from stagnate depths of opaque layers grind
for those without weakness those of you rise
without the wormwood shells of bitter taste
the lower plains and the pains and alibis
of watering wells d i s p e l l i n g waste
There’s innocence in our hearts
an inner chamber where the divine never dims
there's a purposeful purity that never parts
it lives inside once broken down, our bones and limbs
it fills the ovoid, gives opportunity, I end with this,
as an appointee, in a designated avatar,
in n o w mindful we won’t miss
as we are receptors of higher light,
held above varmint vestments tsar
we transform our image gone the dark knight
There’s a secret garden inside, drunk on lovestruck swilling
becoming well known, follow the pathless path amidst
to the road I’m on, there, the sacred wells worth drilling,
the one path known as blessed bliss
—A Monk of Quiet Quest
No objection to cold weather, but...
ah jest wanna boomerang back into the womb
No matter birth canal
long since got breached,
countless scores of years
I quickly grew
impossible mission to plunge
(think Nestea commercial)
headfirst back into utero,
haint got any got any
handy dandy blues clue,
nonetheless said wish
I broach to you,
whether ye reside in Baku
Guangzhou
Kalamazoo
Kathmandu
Peru
Thimphu
Timbuktu.
Sudden pang roared awake
nsync like blazing saddles
hot enough to sizzle steak
torpid, humid, and
arrid extra dry to take
breath away analogous vacuumed
courtesy fire breathing dragon
chilling parched scales in great lake
already this doubting
Thomas doth hanker
for global warming yore
less than six months ago
geesh for goodness sake,
when Earth did bake
triple digit temperatures
no thirst could slake,
thus intravenous feeding
in tandem with trach
still inadequate to brake
yours truly did pine... for chill
against dehydration, ah only to wake,
when came the morrow,
where Jack and Jill
sweat buckets, this
before they climbed uphill
akin to madding crowd
clamoring, thirsting, gulping...
every last drop
essentially emptying damn
immense reservoir spill
futilely swilling parched lips till...
Old cranks shrugged off
exceptionally hot weather, and did scoff
younger generation's creature comforts
old geezers recalled
back in the day
as laddies and Tom boy
lassies did slough
no trespassing signs
skinny dipping after they shuck off
clothes giddily swinging
atop highest bough
playing hooky averse
learning would ever payoff
pitying other kids in school
former gathering rosebuds...
around lunchtime hunger
relishing stealing stroganoff
under nose of Mister Groff,
one former German World War II,
who colluded with American "boys"
despite heavily decorated luftwaffe
and posthumously honored
Veterans day getting last laugh!
In an imaginary world where believe is everything,
there existed a dress of a magic perception,
for any occasion or who you meet it changes to its occasion.
Like the individual feeling you sense in that circumstance,
giving the eye of the beholder a dress of perceptive romance.
The dress always in perfect fit and accessories included,
the soul knows that she is perfect and the dress has to reveal it.
But as the soul matures only by experience,
the dress struggles with making perfect decisions.
The compromised dress in the wrong place,
and with whom not at the right time in sensitive space.
Tensions touching the weakest button,
the swilling chest of motions gets the boat rocking.
The top button jumps into the reflected image,
splitte personality without knowledge.
One cannot blame others, they acting like a mirror,
making the perfected image more queerer.
Every smile you get is usually a compliment,
creating reflections in multitude consent.
Every soul in its multiple reflection dress,
many mirror souls making beauty timeless.
The Haiku in blue
Please do tell me what is new
Where's your Blue Sued Shoes?
My Mind's in a coup
Now what do I have to do
To escape this Soup?
Do you think me mad
Or do you see me as sad?
Either way's not bad
In my heart's a hole
They tried to save me, my soul
I've played Dead Man's Roll
The Haiku In Blue
Like it's 23 Skadoo
Scooby Dooby Doo
It's in the old bar bub
In the Hotsie Totsie Club
Gin in the Bathtub
Way back on time line
The year's 1929
Making Beer and Wine
Swilling homemade Booze
They thought that they couldn't lose
It was all a ruse
The Haiku In Blue
Making my Poetry Stew
In need there's a slew
I am just Rootin'
For Pharaoh Rootin' Rootin'
While Night Owl's Hootin'
To atone for sin
I shall roll the bones again
See what time I'm in
Don't stay in one place
Travel in both Time and Space
Seek Earth's Blue face
The Haiku In Blue
Will never keep track of you
Like the others do
Like the old map told
Seek you now the Pharaoh's Gold
Mined in times of old
Seeking the old ruin
'Neath the face of the Blue Moon
Wanning all too soon
First the moon has waxed
By turning all of time back
Howling Wolves attack
I'm the Werewolf and
I'm the leader of the pack
I'm ruling this land
The Haiku In Blue
Will make you your actions rue
Your illwishes too
"Where am I?", I said
Now walking with the undead
Now the Moon is Red
Run the Human Race
And Dance all over the place
Gone without a trace
Sing a Happy Song
While having your Black Suit on
Hat and Cane do don
The Haiku In Blue
Will always tell you the truth
And show you it too
So, It, What is It?
Monster from the Twelth Planet
Believe every bit
The Haiku In Blue
Will always tell you the news
Even if it stinks, Pew!
On all this Blue Stuff
I say, "Enough is Enough!"
But quitting is rough
This is too Silly
Thrown 'round Blue Willy Nilly
This one's a Dilly
Done with Blues, my friend
So tails you lose, heads I Win
Won't be back again...
Copyright Jeff W. Watson, July 26, 2026